The Autobiography of a Troubled Soul
by E. S. Young
Summary: In eleventh grade, Jeffery Sands was forced to write an autobiography for English class. Contains foul language, cutting classes, insulting teachers, spice conspiracies, infatuations with principals, and tall, sexy redheads. PreMexico fun for anybody who
1. The Hazy Years, AKA Childhood

**The Autobiography of a "Troubled Soul"**

By

_S. Jeffery Sands _

Edited and Approved By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter One: **The Hazy Years AKA, Childhood

Recently I had to write an autobiography for English class. 9.9 I didn't enjoy it mostly because I had to write about myself. That's incredibly hard for me to do, but I got through it and, in the end, I gained an idea for a new story! This one will be short mostly because I'm following the guidelines I was given in English class. See, we were given four packets that each contained different questions. We were supposed to have thought of each packet as a chapter of our autobiographies, get it?

Sands: Doubt it. -.9 You should just let me do the talking from now on, sugar. You're too confusing.

Sidney: I know. That's why most of this is written from your POV. :)

Sands: What? Why? These kids don't need to read what I'm thinking. They're fucked up enough as it is. 9.9

Sidney: Too bad. You know the idea won't leave my mind until it's written down, so hop to it, mister. u.u

Sands: (thinks she's crazier than he is and edges out of the room) 6.6

Sidney: (rolls eyes) Anyway . . . hope this tides you over 'til I get the next chapter of _Smoke Gets in Your Eyes _posted. Enjoy!

* * *

"Shaddap," a rough voice demanded.

The chatter of the classroom died down immediately as every student swerved around in their seats, wanting to look as though they were intent on paying attention.

At the front of the room stood their teacher, Miss Kovinski, – 'Miss K' to her students – hands on her hips, brow furrowed, thin lips pursed, and beady eyes scrutinized her students. Twelve years of teaching eleventh grade English had not affected the teacher's appearance in the least. Her face still held a permanently squinted image, her figure was still tall, lean, and slightly muscular, and not once in her teaching career had she worn a skirt. As far as Miss Kovinski was concerned, it was pants all the way. Recently, however, the teacher had ditched her shoulder-length hairdo for a short, spiky butch cut with platinum blond highlights. She was, in some student's opinions, a poster child for feminine rights.

"I trust you all did your homework," she stated rather than asked.

There was instant mayhem as the pupils scrambled to unearth their assignments before the teacher had to ask a second time. All except one, however. Not one to be shaken by a teacher's wrath – no matter _how _burly they were – seventeen-year-old Jeffery Sands leaned back in his seat, casually picking at a hangnail. Miss Kovinski saw this at once and pounced.

In just three strides with her long legs Miss K was in front of Sands' desk, her most fearsome glare plastered upon her ever-scowling face. Several heads turned, each one wearing an eager look of malice. Completely unperturbed, Sands glanced up at his teacher.

_Ah, I see she bleached the 'stache again . . ._

He lowered his eyes, his attention attracted to his nails once again.

Miss K cleared her throat theatrically. A few people snickered. By now, the entire class was watching her, save for one single person. Sands knew he couldn't continue his charade forever – while his nails were far more exciting than one of Miss K's ramblings about English, they weren't _that _interesting. He would need to acknowledge his teacher sooner or later, and though he would much rather do it later, the former option was the one he had to go with.

Looking up with large, innocent eyes, he asked, "Did you want something, Miss K?"

It was an act, and the class knew it. Smirking at the quiet laughter that followed his question, Sands met Miss Kovinski's angry glare with a cool gaze of his own. It soon changed, however, when his teacher answered him.

"As a matter of fact, I did, _Shelmo_."

Now the class was really laughing, but Sands ignored them, refusing to let his irritation show, yet he could not stop the dark cloud still crept into his eyes.

"Do you have the assignment?" Miss K demanded.

"Actually –" Sands began.

"I knew it," the teacher announced, looking around the room to see if her kids were watching. "I _knew _it. You don't have it done, do ya, sword-face?"

Sands arched an eyebrow at the name but chose not to comment on it. Instead he said, "_Actually _I do." Reaching down, he pulled a thin, slightly crumpled pile of papers out from underneath his desk and presented them to Miss K. The class snickered again. Not wanting to be shown up by one of her students, Miss Kovinski kept up her sarcastic attitude even as she accepted the assignment.

"Why thank you, Shelmo, I'll make sure to grade this one right away. Lord knows it's _bound_ to be interesting."

Without another word she turned on her heel and stalked back over to her desk. The students glanced around at each other, each one just as confused as the next.

"Did she give us any work to do . . . ?" someone murmured to their neighbor.

"Shut it," Miss K snarled, looking up from her desk. "I didn't forget."

_Doubt that_, Sands mused, certain that several of his so-called peers were thinking along the same lines.

"Turn to page 335," the teacher ordered. "Start reading and then answer the questions when you get to the end of the story."

_Ah, hell. I've already _read _this one, _Sands muttered, frowning down at his literature book. Heavy, bold lettering spelled out the title **_The Miracle Worker. _**Letting out a sigh of frustration, Sands stole a glance at his English teacher. She didn't notice, already submerged in correcting someone's homework for errors. Leaning forward to get a closer look at the papers in Miss K's hand, Sands grinned, realizing that the assignment was his.

* * *

****

**The Autobiography of a "Troubled Soul"**

**As told by said troubled soul**

**(_Without his consent)_**

_**S. Jeffery Sands**_

**Part I**

So, it seems as though I have been goaded into writing an autobiography, my _own, _no less. If this be the case, then before I begin I want to state that I do _not _enjoy talking about myself. I find it incredibly uncomfortable, mostly because I'd rather not reveal my past to a person who's chosen to call me '_Shelmo._' However, I shall condone in this writing activity — it _is _a grade after all and, though I have absolutely _no _idea why, I _would _like to attend college. Also, I must warn the reader(s) that I have the tendency to ramble. Normally this would not happen, but since I'm supposed to talk about myself . . . tangents are more than likely to occur. Forgive my aberrant behavior; after all, I _did _give you a warning. The ramblings are annoying, I know, but sometimes very useful. For instance, many years ago, in Ireland, there was a game entitled "Gentlemen Only, Ladies Forbidden." This was too long to say, however, so the first letters of each word were combined to form the term we all know as _golf_. It may not seem useful, but one never knows. One thing I do know is that it had nothing to do with anything in this autobiography. This is all part of getting to know me, ladies and gentlemen, like it or not.

Several distinct traits run through my family. The dark brown hair is a visible example, but there are some that cannot be seen. Considering this, it's probably best list the _good_ things I have inherited before I begin on the . . . unique . . . ones. I received my negative outlook on life from my father, Robert – lovingly called 'Rob' by my stepsisters – and my pessimistic attitude from him as well. I can't forget being a control freak either, although I would hope that I'm not as obvious about it as he is. Those aren't exactly _good_ things, are they? That would be my negative side kicking in – thanks, Dad! However, there are some nice things about my genetics. My mother gave me my insight and good taste, as well as my interesting taste in reading material. I can also thank her for my nearly obsessive compulsive behavior when it comes to cleaning and blame my mother for my abilities to confuse the lesser being.

Aside from their genetics, my parents had much more to give, my name being one example. After coming to the decision that Robert Jr. was just _not_ unique enough, my parents went all out. Not considering how it would affect their son later in life, they finally made a decision, and that decision was . . . . to name me Sheldon. At first, it wasn't that bad a name, at least I didn't think so. Then, however, I started kindergarten and when my fellow six-year-olds fell into hysterics during roll call, I began to suspect that Sheldon wasn't such a hot name after all.

While I am on the subject of names, I may as well express that I have always liked my sister's title more than my own. Aside from her first name, that is. Got to say I hate her first name, and I'm sure she'd agree. Beatrice (see? Doesn't that just suck?) Lynné Sands is twelve years old, looks very much like her heart-throb of a brother (moi), and is a mean badminton player. Just ask my older stepsister, Catherine. She knows from experience.

While my relatives – mostly my grandmother – can rattle on about all of my favorite toys, games, and stories from my childhood, I can hardly remember anything. The only thing that comes to mind are the soft, simple lyrics to the song that was the theme for the movie _Breakfast at Tiffany's._ Why I can only remember the words to Moon River remains a mystery. I know that my mother always used to sing it when I was younger, but she used to sing many things so why would one particular song stay prominent in my mind, I have wondered. As I have said, it is one of many strange things about me that have yet to be solved.

1971 was an important year for the world. The microprocessor was introduced, which was the foundation of all computers, or just about anything electric. The NASA Mariner 9 became the first spacecraft to orbit another planet on November 14th. The Soviets Mars 2 and Mars 3 arrived a month later, and sent a probe down to the planet (which unfortunately didn't work for long). Even more unfortunately, cigarette ads were banned on TV.

Musicians were also busy during the year of my birth. Rod Stewart reached the top of the charts with Maggie May, and Me and Bobby Mcgee sung by Janis Joplin was played in clubs across the country. Also, the song Brown Sugar brought the Rolling Stones back on the top ten charts once again.

Thinking of an early memory from my childhood has probably been the most difficult thing to do while writing this autobiography. Admittedly, it took me a good portion of the English period to recall an event that has stuck with me for so long. Finally, I settled on Santa. However, I would like to make a note that when my uncle Bernard told me the tale of jolly ol' Saint Nick, he had my best interests at heart.

It was December of 1974 when my father decided to fill me in about the mysterious, bearded, red man. I was only a child of three, then – young, innocent prey just waiting to be snared by corruption. I was curious to know what the older children meant when they talked about 'Santa Claus' and my uncle (corruption) saw this as his golden opportunity to alter the mind of his youngest child. He explained to me that Santa was a man who came down everyone's chimney each and every Christmas Eve, that if children were good, they would wake up the next morning to find presents under the Christmas tree, and that if they were bad, they would be left with nothing but coal. However, if the kids did not go to sleep right away then Santa would eat the cookies, make off with the television, and perhaps he would even raid the refrigerator while he was at it. After all, his reindeer needed sustenance, too. Well, being a child growing up in the '70s, TV was my best friend. I just could not let Santa take it away from me, so when it was time to go to bed, I promptly fell asleep _with _a baseball bat just in case.

For seven long years I waited in horror for Christmas to come. Each year it would pass with ease, but that did not mean I would let my guard down. Finally, I learned the truth about Santa: that he did not exist, that he was just a story made up by parents to trick children into behaving themselves. Naturally I was heartbroken but only until the fury of being afraid of something that was not real for seven years kicked in. Immediately, I confronted my father, demanding to know _why _he would tell me such a terrible thing and insisting that it was a completely awful thing to tell a child. His response was: "Il a travaillé, n'est-ce pas ?" Well, it worked, didn't it?

I never really had many babysitters. Usually our housekeeper, Rivka, watched me while my parents were away at work, but when he had business to attend to, I stayed with a neighbor girl, Erin (last name unknown), and her eleven-year-old brother whose name escapes me. The only thing I remember about them is an experience involving a broken pair of glasses.

"What's this?" I had asked, holding up the clear nosepiece of the eyewear.

"Oh, it's –" Erin began, but her brother cut her off.

"It's a teardrop," he explained, nodding knowingly. "It's _frozen_."

Looking back on that and then scrutinizing the clear, rubbery part from the glasses – does _anybody _know what those things are called? – I can see the resemblance, though I am proud to say that I did not believe Erin's brother for a minute. Even as a child I was skeptical. I usually trusted the adults but older kids were all liars to me. One might consider this the quintessential training for what would later become a paranoid adolescent. However, I have to wonder . . . is that necessarily a _good _thing?

When Erin was unavailable, I was sent to stay with my dad's mom, Grandma Beatrice, or 'Bea' as everyone else calls her. Now, let it be known that I love my Granny dearly . . . but she is a bitter and spiteful crone who is older than dirt itself. She is obsessive compulsive when it comes to cleaning, going to great lengths to make her house spotless. She vacuums and dusts daily, gets her dog and cat groomed every Saturday, and criticizes her daughter-in-law's housekeeping skills. Considering how cheap she is, she could pass as the female equivalent of Fred Mertz. Penny pincher to the end, she once bought her only grandson – _moi _– a pair of socks for Christmas, saying in her wavering, high-pitched voice, "Now I got these for fifty cents at the thrift store." Gee, Gram, thanks a bunch. This really shows me how much you care.

* * *

The monotonous yet vital droning of a bell rang throughout the classroom, indicating a change in period. It's sound hit something in the minds of the schoolchildren, something that hand a link with the bell and the human psyche. At the sound of the tone, the students immediately snatched up whatever they had carried with them, sprang from their desks, and, with a glazed look reserved only for those under severe hypnosis, darted out of the room.

Sands, not one to be controlled by anything especially something as ridiculous as a bell, took his time gathering his books together before exiting the scene. Before he left he cast one glance back at Miss K who paid him no notice. She was still absorbed in his autobiography. Even more cocksure than before, Sands allowed a smirk to cross his face as he disappeared down the hall.

Wide-eyed with interest, Miss Kovinski turned the page of Sands' autobiography and continued on with Part II.

* * *

__

_So how was that? Good? Bad? Funny at least? Let me know! Oh, but I must tell you, that part about Santa Claus being evil? (points to self)_ That_ is what I was led to believe throughout my entire childhood. Invader Nicole and the Gilatas Monster can vouch for me on this. Oh, and Miss Kovinski? She's based on my ninth grade English teacher, just so ya know. And, yes, she really does act and look just like that. It's scary. But she liked me. . . . . which was even scarrier. o.o;; But, anyway, I'm off to finish the next bit of my other OUaTiM story. Catch you guys lata. R&R!_

_o_


	2. Everything Happens for a Reason

**The Autobiography of a "Troubled Soul"**

By

_S. Jeffery Sands _

Edited and Approved By

_**E. S. Young**_

**Chapter Two: **Everything Happens for a Reason (_Including Sands_)

I'm shocked that so many people liked this fic! Well . . . not really if you consider how many times I've read posts on message boards requesting a Sands-Childhood fic. There are a lot, believe you me. Still surprises me, though. :)

* * *

"I just don't know why none of you can understand this," Mr. Perry the geometry teacher lectured as he passed back tests from the previous day. Each and every one was covered with red slash marks, telltale signs of bad grades. Mr. Perry shook his head and sighed in disappointment. These kids just didn't get it. 

"I put the notes in your notebooks," he continued to scold. "I put the _examples _in your notebooks. I tell you _three days ahead of time _when the test is going to be . . ."

'No you don't,' mouthed Sands as he accepted his exam from the teacher.

". . . and yet you still fail!" Mr. Perry complained. "I think it's because you need more practice. And _that's _why I give you so many assignments."

"Noo," Sands said aloud, "you do that because you're _lazy_."

He grinned when his fellow classmates snickered at the remark. Everyone knew that Mr. Perry was a bitter, spiteful, domineering, sexist pig who hadn't taught a single day in his entire career. Unless one counted whenever members of the school board came in to observe the teachers. Then he always jumped to his feet and acted like teaching was his life – after children, of course.

Sands snorted. Disgusting. This guy wasn't an educator. The only reason anybody passed his class was because he gave mega-easy extra credit so parents and the superintendent didn't become aware of his miserable teaching skills. And the kids never said anything because the extra credit was so well supplied, they never had to study for a test or even do their homework. They could still get above an 83 in Perry's class and anything higher than a 70 was passing.

I _could probably teach geometry better than this guy_, Sands thought as he shot the flabby, troll-like educator with the hooked nose a look of severe loathing. There was something about people who didn't do their job that really got on his nerves.

* * *

**Part II**

Why is it I am constantly finding myself unable to remember events from my childhood? Also, why is it I am constantly being asked to _describe_ my childhood? Autobiography, of course, that would be the answer. I suppose if I have to, I can always interrogate my parents for recollections. Then again, that may not be the best idea seeing how my dad tends to make fun of how I behaved as a child and our housekeeper turns into this matron that begins spouting embarrassing – though she considers them adorable – memories of yesteryear. So rather than go through that, I will have to try and dig up some accounts from my own mental inventory. If worst comes to worst, I can always make something up.

There _is _one thing I remember, not about me, but my sister. This takes place when she was in second grade and really hated a lot of the kids around her. It doesn't have much to do with _me, _but it's an interesting story so I think it deserves to be in here.

At least once in her lifetime, mostly between the ages of three and seven, every girl wants to be a movie star, a princess, or a super model. Whether she wants to admit it or not is another story because admitting to behaving in a girly manner may wreck the image a girl has set up for herself. I can comfortably say that long, long ago my sister Lynné shared the same kind of dreams. However, like most kids her age, she quickly threw away any hopes of being a princess when, as is with most girls when they hit the age of eight, the concept of being a veterinarian moved in. However, for a brief period of time during those deluded years she wanted to be something other than a princess, a super model, or a movie star.

It all started when our mom's sister, Aunt Audrey, brought home a book entitled _Harriet the Spy._ In it the main character, Harriet, was a writer-in-training who gained her inspiration by eavesdropping on her friends, family, and neighbors, recording everything in her black-and-white splotched notebook. Instantly Lyn had a sudden urge to do this, to write about everyone and everything that happened in her life. While in school she filled her own journal with the accounts of each day of her life. That is, until it was deemed a 'problem' by her second grade teacher, Mrs. Harpster. She informed our parents that my sister was being distracted by the notebook and that the class already wrote once each and every day of school. The kids wrote, yes, but they wrote what _she _wanted; there was no choice for them. Most kids couldn't care less, but nobody ever said Lynné was like most kids. She cared and was tired of writing stupid summaries about the asinine stories that filled her phonics books. However, as is unfortunately a regular occurrence in elementary school, no one listened to her, and her notebook was taken away. The concept of writing soon dropped and Lyn morphed into an aspiring animal doctor just like many of my peers.

Thinking back on it, a lot happened when_ I_ was eight too. A friend of my uncle Bernard's – Bill – called him asking for help with the new house he was building. Uncle Bernard complied, bringing me along with him. I was told not to play with any of the power tools, to be on the look out for falling objects, and, generally, to stay out of their way. Well, this did not leave much to the eight-year-old mind, but, nonetheless, I found a way to entertain myself. Turns out, Bill had a dog. More specifically, a golden retriever named Sara. Since a dog was no less a hazard than an eight-year-old, Bill made an effort to keep her out of the way as well. So I took Sara outside on the front porch. It was unfinished – only the planks had yet to be put down – but safer than staying inside where Bill and my uncle were busing themselves with building a set of steps. So, being young and confident that I could do anything and not be killed, I began to walk the narrow beams of the bare porch. Everything seemed to be going fine. My arms were out, I wasn't wobbling even slightly, and I had yet to fall off.

As I neared the end of the porch, I felt a surge of triumph as I had (almost) successfully crossed the makeshift balance beam. Then Sara – forgot all about her, I'll bet – came up out of nowhere. In complete hyperactive puppy-mode, she jumps on me from behind, trying to paw at my face. In the chaos, my arms flailed, my legs became entangled with one another, and I fell . . .

. . . directly onto the solid, wooden beam I had been balancing on just moments before. If any of the readers have ever been smacked in the face with a hammer, then they will know what this felt like. After what seemed like two hours worth of screaming my yells finally reached my uncle. He came barreling out of the house in a panic, demanding to know what happened. Finally managing to subdue me a bit, he finally got some answers.

"It'll be _fiiine_," he assured me. "You'll probably have a bit of a bruise tomorrow but nothing worse. I doubt it's broken or anything. Yeah...you'll be fine, just don't tell your mother. If she asks tomorrow, you just say you woke up that way."

I did not attend school the next day, the reason being my nose. Apparently, while he _is _an exceptional interior designer/cook/fashion maven, Uncle Bernard knows nothing about injuries, at least not ones to the face. My nose was still hurting, so I stayed home from school. Eventually, my mother grew worried and took me to the hospital for X-rays, and, as it turned out, my nose _was _broken after all. So I had a fractured nose at the age of eight and 24 hours went by before anyone did anything about it, so now you know the reason behind my face being as abhorred as it is.

School was strange. Teachers, and of course students, claimed that _I _was the strange one, but I knew better. Just because my peers and I didn't see things in the same light, _I _was automatically deemed 'the weird kid.' No, that's a lie. In the beginning, whenever school first starts for a child, everybody is accepted. It helped to be nice, but whoever had the newest, best, coolest toy in the whole _world _was the kid everyone wanted to play with. Luckily, I was one of those children.

Eleven years have gone by and I _still _loathe lunch period. When I came to school, I was expecting trays to drop, mutant casseroles to fly off the trays and attack people, and food fights to be regular occurrences. When my very first lunch period rolled around, I was expecting _mayhem. _No, this was not the scene I was met with when I entered the cafeteria. The food was disgusting – a fact that secured ten to twelve years of brown bagging for this individual – but it wasn't flying through the air. Kids were sitting calmly in their seats, chatting not yelling, and actually eating what was on their trays with placid expressions on their faces. It was all a severe letdown ,to say the least, but I suppose that taught me not to expect too much out of anything in the future.

My neighborhood is . . . quaint. I live on the nicest street in town, according to my dad. The sidewalks are clean; the houses are neat and taken care of; one could say that it's charming -- picturesque even. However, this is just what it looks on the _outside_. The inside is a whole other story. Within the adorable little brick homes dwell horrible creatures like no other. I will not mention the names of the people who lurk inside the faux abodes for the sake of privacy and safety (both my neighbors' and my own). For this autobiography, the two subjects I describe will be known only as "Mister and Misses Rubbernecker," two of the nosiest people I have ever met. Mr. and Mrs. Rubbernecker are the retired couple that lives across the street from me. They are, in my eyes, the nosiest people that ever lived. They will sit outside on their porch, talking the day away. However, when someone, whether it be a kid on a bike or Fidel Castro himself, if someone comes walking down the street, my neighbors will cease their chatter immediately to gawk at the pedestrian until the person is out of sight. Let it be known that gossip-mongers and/or rumor-spreaders such as my neighbors have problems and need serious help. There are better things they could be doing with their time. They could be reading a book or swimming with aquatic life or even bungee jumping in New Zealand – anything is better than spying on your decent (using the term loosely) neighbors, the Sands family.

If Mr. and Mrs. Rubbernecker have gleaned anything from me, it is that I have a strong resentment towards snakes, Santa Claus, and, most important of all, clowns. Can a person who goes around in white face paint and colorful wigs be trusted, I ask you? I think not. Who knows what they've got in those baggy pants of theirs, and don't get me started on the shoes. _Those _are just a disgrace to the shoe world. However, I didn't always hate the red-nosed menace. No, at one point in my life clowns were not a problem. However, as I neared my seventh birthday, my parents declared that a party was in order. After all, a person doesn't turn seven every day. So my mother called a man who went by the name of Heubey and made balloon animals for children's birthday parties and other social events. Unfortunately, a week before my birthday, Heubey gave us a call, explaining that he could not make my party but that we shouldn't worry because he was sending someone else over in his place, a good personal friend by the name of Clarabelle the Clown.

My seventh birthday arrived, and two hours into the party, Clarabelle decided to show up. Her beat up, brown, jalopy crawled its way into my driveway, belching smoke all the way and adding to the ozone layer's damage. The car may have seemed like a crime against nature, but it was nothing compared to its owner. Butch, burly, and blue-haired, Clarabelle the Clown heaved herself out of her wreck of a car and tossed her cigarette onto the pavement. After snubbing it out with the toe of her gigantic purple and yellow polka dotted shoes, she turned around to glare at the audience that had gathered on the sidewalk.

"Where's the birthday boy?" she demanded, her voice gnarled and raspy from too many smokes. It was then that I decided to ditch my party and fled to the safety of the backyard. Several of my smarter guests followed suit.

Clarabelle, however, would not allow a little terror to dampen her mood. Still just as crabby as ever, she stomped after me and began setting up for her 'show' while I (as well as many of the other children) hid behind my swing set. After putting on what _could _be considered a magic show, Clarabelle said that if anyone wanted to get his or her face painted, she would gladly do it. Everyone else seemed to have relaxed a bit after the so-called magic show, but not me. After years of enduring Uncle Bernard's tricks, I knew better.

"Hey! Buddy!" she hollered to my dad, her craggy voice grating on my already frazzled nerves. "Can I get some water!?"

My dad was more than a little disturbed, but complied and brought water to the thirsty horror in baggy pants, even adding a few ice cubes to the glass. Clarabelle took one look at the glass and snarled, "I didn't ask for _ice_! I just wanted a glass a' water!"

Not to be swayed by this, Clarabelle shrugged and began to paint the charming faces of my friends while my father decided to see how his son was faring in his hideout.

One might think that that was the last I ever saw of the infamous Clarabelle the Clown, but no. Several months after my birthday party, I was sitting in the passenger's seat of my mother's flashy red Chevrolet when a car came out of nowhere and nearly ran us off the road. Smoke churned out of the vehicle in great, black clouds of exhaust fumes as the driver barreled down the highway with one hand on the steering wheel and the other clasped tightly around a bottle of Jack Daniel's. I didn't need to look at the advertisement on the side of the car to know who the driver was. The blue hair was all I needed. It was Clarabelle the Clown driving haphazardly down the highway, puffing on a cigarette the entire time. It was then that I realized that Clarabelle wasn't a _clown_ at all. She merely liked to wear more makeup than your average person and had an interesting choice in hairstyles. She was just another drunken, chain-smoking pedophile. Had the adults ever left my friends and me alone at my seventh birthday party, I'm sure my childhood would have been even more traumatizing.

The years passed, and while my nightmares of evil clown demons still ran strong, I began not to fear them quite as much. I can be around one now for almost a whole minute without screaming and running from the room. Now that's progress.

Partially overcoming my fear of clowns was definitely an important step in my life. Had I not managed to conquer my terror even slightly, I doubt I would have lasted when my family went to Canada, more specifically, central Québec. When I was thirteen, my family and I all trekked across the country on our way to Nova Scotia. Along the way we made several stops, Salem and Bar Harbor in Massachusetts and the Bay of Fundy in Nova Scotia being the most memorable places in my mind. Once we couldn't find a hotel while we were in Nova Scotia. We had been traveling all day, all of us suffering from fatigue, hunger, sunburn, and mosquito bites in every area imaginable (and I _do _mean every area).

It was late, but we were intent on finding a hotel anyway, no matter how dilapidated or rat-infested. The purple sky soon faded into an impenetrable black, but my father insisted we press onward. At last, we wound up renting out a plot of land on the campgrounds of a national park. Unfortunately, while my dad had brought the items necessary for camping, he forgot the tent poles. We couldn't sleep outside; my dad's car was already encrusted with the squished carcasses of the bugs that had hit the vehicle as it sped down the deserted roads, so we could only imagine what the menacing insects would do to us. As it turned out, we all sought refuge in the car. My dad and stepmom reclined their seats as much as possible, my sister and stepsisters propped their pillow up against her window and leaned against it. As for me, I slept sitting up upside down. More specifically, I had sat down on the back seat of the car and flipped around so my legs were where my head should have been and vice versa. Sound uncomfortable? It was.

It turns out, no one got much sleep anyway, what with my stepmother panicking about the bugs that had somehow managed to get past our tightly sealed windows and securely locked doors and broken into our car. Shouts of "Oh my _God_, that bug was the size of a small bird!" could be heard throughout the night. We ignored her for the most part; after all, this was just my stepmother being, well, my stepmother.

My stepmother, Melinda Johnson believes herself to be a regular Little Miss Mary Sunshine, but anyone who has spent more than five minutes in her presence knows her better than that. It's amazing how she can manage to turn even the brightest day cloudy. Take a church with flowers around its entrance, for example. While one might assume that a lovely couple recently joined together in holy matrimony, my stepmother would think that a funeral had just taken place. Keep in mind that she would say this in a pleasant tone. For someone who is obsessive-compulsive about a clean home, my stepmom would be a nightmare. She is the most slovenly woman I have met, and I say that out of love, of course. In my house, shoes are not allowed, but fortunately that rule doesn't apply to my mother, or else there may be a problem. What irritates me the most is when she eventually does take off her shoes (which is twenty minutes _after _she's tracked mud through the house), she'll leave them lying in the middle of the floor. Neat freaks such as my dad, my sister, and me are driven up a wall by this small action alone.

At this point I probably should take the time to explain a few things. Previously I mentioned my mother. Now I suddenly have a _stepmother_. Confusing, I'm sure so I'll clear this up a bit. When I was eight my mother was in a car crash. Lynné was in the car with her, but she was all right save for a few scrapes. My mother, however was bleeding internally and, according to the doctors, there was nothing the hospital could do about it. She died. That's all I have to say on the subject. I'm sure there's more – of course there is – but honestly don't feel like sharing it with you, so you'll excuse me if I don't.

Shortly after my mother's death, my father remarried. That's when Melinda and her two daughters, Catherine and Grace, came into my life. Unwanted, of course. Grace is all right. She's not a complete annoyance. Her older sister is a different story. Catherine or 'Cat' as she likes to be called (she thinks it's cute, _please_) is worse than Mr. And Mrs. Rubbernecker when it comes to being nosey. She will go to great lengths to pump information out of a person and can't keep a secret to save her life. The only good thing about Cat is the fact that she is _so _easy to get to. Just about anything annoys her, so you don't even have to be a relatively smart person in order to get under her skin.

My dad can be annoying at times – correction, make that 'incredibly intolerable, so much that he aggravates me to the point of insanity' – but, for the most part, he's tolerable. I'm sure that when he informs me that "A motorcycle helmet doesn't do anything except make it easier to identify the body," that's just his way of saying 'Drive safe, son.'

Then there's my sister. Beatrice Lynné Sands or 'Lyn' is my only biological sibling. As strange as it sounds, I get along with her more than my other relatives. She may be a smart-mouthed, irksome, little brat-child, but at least she's interesting. Take summer vacation for example. Normally, there's nothing to do, but when Lyn's around, things change – _drastically_.

As far as traditions, my family has none, unless you count making me the guest book attendant for weddings, and that's only happened twice. It's not that my family doesn't like each other; they're just not the warm, loving bunch that most people seem to have. If they were, they'd be stereotypes, and then I would have to poke fun and their overly done antics in this autobiography – more than I already have. There are rules in my house, of course. They're pretty basic: Don't smoke, don't do drugs, don't drink, don't gamble, don't drive underage . . . I think I've broken each of those at least twice. I guess that's because I myself only live by _one _rule, and that is: 'I don't _care_ what you do. Go ahead; do drugs, smoke cigarettes, sleep around, be a boozehound, go out and off somebody – it doesn't matter. Just don't be stupid about it. And by stupid, I mean, if and when you go down, don't bring me with you.' Some may call that cynical. _I _call it accepting.

There are no 'family values' in my house, just words of caution. Of course my father cares about my grades and behavior in school but his emotion is never really expressed until things go wrong and I suddenly wind up in the principal's office for selling hemp jewelry on school grounds – _not _that I ever have, of course. Despite how apathetic my dad can be, I do know that my relatives care, at least the ones on my mom's side do. They provide enough warnings for me to know this fact. My sister especially, even though she's often more callous than my dad. A case in point: One time while shopping for groceries, Lyn remarked that it was amazing how many breakfast products contain the spice cinnamon. Suddenly hit with paranoia, she quickly informed me that it was all due to a government ploy. When I asked her what this meant, she replied, "Cinnamon is the aphrodisiac of the complacent happy family."

Big words for a twelve-year-old, I know. That's why she skipped a grade. Anyway, Lynné continued, "You've gotta understand: It's a _drug_ infused by the government to lure us into a false sense of security; to trick us into thinking that everything is okay."

"Example?" I asked, both intrigued and amused.

"Whenever a mom makes her kids breakfast in the morning, what is _always _there no matter what? Cinnamon. Cinnamon _toast_, Cinnamon Toast _Crunch_, cinnamon _bread... _And why? Because cinnamon gives off a warm, homey feeling. It makes the kids believe that their mom goes out of her way for them. Don't get me wrong; it's not that she doesn't care for her kids, she's just lazy. We all are, so that's one of the reasons we have cinnamon."

"Oh, like that _Pepperidge Farm_ commercial," I realized, nodding. "The dad leaves for work before his family even wakes up, _but _he puts a few slices of cinnamon bread in the toaster before he goes. That way, when the wife and kids get up, it's like, 'Aww, Daddy may be a work-aholic, but he still cares. After all, he made us cinnamon bread!'"

"Exactly," my sister replied. "Now you know."

I remembered this important bit of information, and have come to realize that it is what hatched my extreme distrust for the government – _not_ that I had much faith in them to begin with.

* * *

_Christ, somebody get me the hell outta here! _He was up for anything. Fire drill, sudden appendicitis attack, trip to the principal's office . . . any excuse to leave Mr. Perry's classroom was fine with him. 

"'If X is greater than 5, then X is greater than 3 is true,'" Perry was saying, droning on and on about God only knew what. The class certainly didn't.

_Not that it matters since hardly any of us will use the math we learn after sixth grade . . ._

"But 'X is greater than three, then X is greater than 5' is _false _because . . ." Mr. Perry's permanently swollen lower lip protruded even more as he scowled out at his students. He was obviously expecting someone to take the bate and answer, but nobody was biting. "_Becaaause . . ._"

"_Because of the wonderful things he does_," Sands sang, not bothering to keep his voice down.

The teacher's head immediately snapped up from his answer book. Perry's dull watery eyes, sunken into the mounds of fat that surrounded them, squinted as he zeroed in on the student who had dared to taunt him. Seeing this, Sands grinned.

_Principal's office, here I come . . ._

* * *

_And thus concludes yet another chapter of Sands' autobiography! And once again 80 of it is based on tales from my own childhood. O.o; Yes, unfortunately, Clarabelle the Clown actually exists and still haunts me to this day. -.-; As does Mr. Perry the lazy-arsed geometry teacher even though I changed his name for this purpose. Not by much, mind you. -.9 I must admit I was kinda venting through Sands whenever I wrote the parts with him in it, but come on! Anyone who's ever met Perry would agree that he is a zit on the butt of mankind and deserves to be put out of his misery. But anyway, I digress . . . Luckily, Sands' family isn't based on my own. Except maybe Uncle Bernard who really acts a lot like my dad. o.o_ **Author's Thanks and Review Responses**

**vanillafluffy: **o.o! Really? Thank you! Nice to hear from you again, too :)

**The Gilatas Monster: **Yeah, I don't remember Miss K having a moustache either . . . hmm. Anyway, what the heck does 'sword-face' mean!? Somebody tell me! And I had to have her call him Shelmo, come on, that was so Miss K. u.u.

**fanfiction fanatic: **Hey, thanks! You know I appreciate the praise :)

**Dawnie-7: **It's so good to hear that this sounds like something Sands would write. You know me and keeping him in character 9.9

**morph: **Oooh, you mentioned the stuff in history :D I was hoping somebody would. I thought it would be something neat to throw into the autobio, not to mention the fact that I was required to include stuff like that when I wrote mine for English. Yeah, this takes place before Alaska, unfortunately. Sands was about twenty when that happened and in this he's seventeen. I suppose I could've made this into a college report but I like writing him as a teenager :)

**Lynx Ryder: **Hmm . . . so far a lot of people have said that I write Sands well . . . I'm beginning to wonder . . . should I be worried? o.o; I mean, Sands _is _a bit of a deranged psychopath who is more than a little unbalanced . . . but it's in a _good _way. He's still oddly lovable for some reason, after all. In any case, glad I could brighten your day! :D

**websurffer: **I liked your review. Very poetic. u.u And thank you!

**Invader Nicole: **Skool is definitely being evil anymore. I know what you mean about being bombarded with homework. 9.9 Damn teachers . . . Sorry to hear about the writer's block :( It is indeed a terrible thing to have. Hope you're hit with inspiration soon!

**ringbearers-guardian: **Thank you :) And believe me, I definitely intend on continuing this story.

**DragonHunter200: **lol! I definitely know how you feel about being freaked out by a teacher. Last year I was certain that my English teacher (who was female) was coming on to me. Not a fun time. Not at all. But one sings to show tunes? That wouldn't be so bad, mostly cuz I have a thing for musicals but anyway . . . Sword-face was what my ninth grade English teacher used to use as an insult along with other colorful catchphrases such as 'Wholly giant boots, Batman!' 'I'm gonna kung-fu you!' and 'I oughtta send you straight to T-Town fer that!' Yeah, she was just a little . . . intense. As for the poll thing . . . yeah, I'd say that's a little creepy. I'd probably keep the cash, though, knowing me. Mind if I ask if that actually happened? Or is the question just like a survey?

o


	3. That was Then, This is Now

**The Autobiography of a "Troubled Soul"**

By

_S. Jeffery Sands _

Edited and Approved By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Three: **That was Then, This is Now

Oh my _God_ . . . I can't believe so many people are with me on the cinnamon conspiracy! :O It's shocking, it really is. That quote ("Cinnamon is the aphrodisiac of the complacent happy family") has been on my FFN bio for at least a year now. Meh. Nobody really reads that thing, anyway, do they? And even if they _do, _there are 158 quotes listed (at the moment 9.9;;), so I doubt number 97 will stay in their minds. :) Which is fine cuz I've wanted to fit that theory into one of my stories for months now. And remember, if someone calls you crazy for thinking that cinnamon is a conspiracy hatched by the government to delude us, simply say to them, "Oh, no, you don't mean that. That's the cinnamon talking." ;D

* * *

"Can I help you?" 

_You _can _help me, but for all I know you have some afflicting illness that inables you to aid a poor misguided little boy . . ._ Sands felt a wave of smugness wash over him as he thought this. No one could deny it was _much _better than simply, 'I don't know. _Can _you?' That retort was old and overdone, yet people – mostly teachers – continued to run it into the ground.

Keeping his mouth shut, he pulled a bedraggled slip of paper from his jeans' pocket and laid it across the secretary's desk. He took the time to smooth it flat before pushing it towards her. It was as if he wanted the hall pass to be presentable for when it was shown to her. The secretary bent over her typewriter, craning her neck to get a good look at the crumpled yellow rectangle.

"I'm supposed to see the principal," the teenager said suddenly, making her jump. The corners of his mouth twitched at her surprise.

"Oh, of course," the secretary agreed offhandedly as she handed the hall pass back. "Right through there." Sands followed her arm when she pointed to a oak – probably imitation – wood door that he was obviously supposed to go through. She didn't need to show him the way. He'd done this dance before; this time shouldn't be any different. All he had to do was make sure he kept the principal talking long enough to keep him out of geometry class and away from Mr. Perry. He didn't think the so-called teacher would mind. Sands wouldn't be there to annoy him, and Perry didn't _care _if he failed or not – what was there to complain about, right?

Sands shoved the hall pass back into his pocket and headed for the principal's office.

_Right._

* * *

Now comes the part I have been dreading. Now is the time I must sit down and force myself to write about a topic I have always struggled to get out of – aside from math and gym class. Now is when I have to dedicate an entire chapter to . . . myself. I believe I began Chapter One with a paragraph on how much I despised doing that, yes? It truly is a wonder how feeble my attempts at procrastination were. Usually they aren't nearly as short-lived, but perhaps I only thought time was passing quickly. Whatever the case, I do not enjoy writing about myself – I don't even _like _writing about myself, or talking about myself or singing about myself for that matter. It annoys me because, in my mind, there are better things to discuss. However, as I also stated in Chapter One, I want to go to college and since the scores I get in ninth grade through twelfth are the ones that _really _count, I'm not going to flunk English simply because I have issues. Be prepared; this chapter is going to break the scale of cynicism. 

When I originally began thinking about this chapter, I intended to write that children disturb me. However, I realized that kids do not unsettle me; they merely _annoy _me. Kids today think they can get away with anything because, anymore, moms and dads get all of their parenting information out of books. They think that when a child does something wrong, he or she is merely expressing their artistic abilities, and we all know that it's wrong to squelch a child's creativity. Tell that to my sister's second grade teacher, why don't you. But getting back to my point . . . the parents, instead of punishing them, sit the kid down and explain that it's all right if they need their creative space, but their space isn't on the walls of the dinning room. The child, of course, nods and promises not to do it again before running off to find something else that's destructive.

Parents like that need to get it through their heads that simply 'talking things out' is not the way to get through to a kid. Unless they _want _them to turn up on shows like _Maury _as an 'out of control teen,' then some lines need to be drawn. Anyway, I digress and apologize for the tangent. What really disturbs me are perfect teeth. Sounds strange, but take it into consideration. Everyone – not just Hollywood's stars – have teeth that glow like a halogen-watt bulb. Those perfectly sized, perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth really get to me. Body modifications are one thing, but perfect teeth? They should at least leave _something _alone. If anything, people should get their teeth fixed and let everything else be.

They say that nobody's perfect, and I know that, but that doesn't stop my genes. I believe I take after my dad in this field of OCD. I'm a bit of a perfectionist, i.e., I don't see taking a bath every night as a crime, unlike some people I know. So, though it may seem like it, I do _not _care what people think of me. To me, the stupidest thing is when someone judges a person by their outward appearance alone. Example: I am classified as snobbish because I hardly ever talk. Because of that, I, apparently, am seen as cold and standoffish by my peers. Okay, so they may be right about my attitude, but it's not like I _try _to be that way. It just happens, understand? It's not like I can help it (or try to help it, either). It's like the autobiography says: I am a 'troubled soul.' If I weren't, then that title wouldn't make much sense, would it?

There are many people who say that they couldn't care less about their visage, and I'm not disagreeing with them. There are more important things to worry about than your hair or make up or clothes – any kind of crap like that. I'm sure I sound like the world's biggest hypocrite for typing that, especially since appearance is one of the main things I look for in a woman. Go ahead and call me shallow, but I should warn you that you'd only be repeating what my sister's already said.

However, this brings us back to my original statement: OCD. Could perfectionism be classified as Obsessive Compulsive Disorder? I believe it could be. Understand that while it may look as though I pretty myself up because I want to impress someone, it's all a lie. I am _naturally _good looking, everybody. Even when I first wake up in the morning. Trust me, you'd be shocked. Still, I _am_ a perfectionist, but I know that there is no such thing as being perfect; albeit, 'perfect' doesn't seem to fit after I say that, does it? It's not what I'm striving for; anyway. It's doubtful, but I think it may have something to do with the quote, "If you look good, you feel good." Maybe that's it, but it sounds dumb that I would fret over my hair just to get a good vibe. If I wanted that, I could sniff a Sharpie Marker or something – kidding!

A person's appearance _can _be useful, however, when you see someone for the first time. The way someone looks can tell you a lot about the person. Take my one friend Alicia, for example. She's a towering Italian girl who, though she can be a bit slow at times, is a decent friend nonetheless. Once, she had lovely red hair, but then something horrible happened: She dyed it black. What does this tell us about Alicia now? She's a towering Spaniard with straggly black hair who, though we now know that she is a complete _dunce _for doing such a dumb thing to her head, is a lousy friend because she won't dye her hair back for anyone. In case you're wondering, yes, I like redheads. Not when they're taller than me, though, so I doubt I'd take Alicia as a girlfriend. She's hooked a guy now, anyway. Not that that's ever stopped me before, but remember: There's the height thing to consider.

Despite our best efforts, my friends and I cannot convince Alicia to restore her hair to its natural color. This is one case where it would be a _good _thing to give in to peer pressure. For the most part, this bothers me, but if your friends are trying to goad you into changing for the better, it's fine. When people feel pushed by everyone else to do what _they're _doing and dress the way _they _dress that they finally give in, I get annoyed. Despite how it is frowned upon by society, it's all right to be a little offbeat. (Warning: Extremely positive messages ahead) Dare to be different! Be unique! I thought I had made a vow not to make this autobiography even worse by throwing in corny phrases of encouragement, but I did it anyway. Feel free to ignore that moment of lameness; I won't mind nor will I blame you.

My point is, being an individual is not a bad thing. Nowadays if you try stand out, the worst that will happen is you'll receive a few raised eyebrows from onlookers, but had you tried it centuries ago, you would have been burned at the stake for being enigmatic and had to endure the cries of "Witch! Witch! Evil servant of Satan!" while the flames slowly consumed your body. This was, of course, during the times when everyone feared change, art, and science. The people who were tortured and condemned for witchcraft were later given public apologies from their torturer's descendants. Sort of their way of saying "We're sorry our great-great-great grandfathers were so ignorant that they axed all you innocent people. They screwed up and made you all suffer a horrible death after weeks of torment, but _we _know better now. No hard feelings, right?"

The witch trials that swept across Europe throughout the 1600s are only one thing that gets to me. People are ignorant, I know, but that doesn't stop me from being annoyed. The readers already know about my annoyance for today's child-raising skills, but there's more than that – _much _more – which is why I have created the following list.

**Dislikes:**

1. Reality TV shows

2. Posers

3. State testing of any kind

4. Racism whether it be towards color, religion, gender, or physical appearance – who cares what a person looks like as long as they aren't too irritating and are willing to cooperate?

5. Today's so-called music (_Everybody Have Fun Tonight _is not a song, people!)

6. The government

7. Whiny Goth kids – they talk about being in a world of pain, but I'd like to see if they'd change their minds if they were forced to live in a third world country for a week

8. Arguments over religion – I think I have a right to object to this; after all, my family's beliefs are the reason I'm not going to be valedictorian when I graduate

9. Making fun of the French – much of our vocabulary is stolen from theirs; we should at least give them a _little_ credit

It looks as though I don't care for much of anything, doesn't it? It only seems that way. Really, I enjoy many things, just not the kind of stuff people in my age group tend to like. The next list proves this.

**Likes**:

1. Books – _Frankenstein, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_, Bram Stoker's _Dracula, _and _The Phantom of the Opera_

2. Plays/musicals – _Cabaret_, _Oklahoma_, _The Phantom of the Opera_, _My Fair Lady_, _West Side Story_, _Laughing Wild_

3. Music – jazz, old rock, classical; it varies a lot

4. Movies –The original James Bond movies, any stereotypical spy/cop flicks like _Shaft _or _Foxy Brown_, _The Godfather Saga_, as well as many of the old, black and white horror films

5. Traveling – as long as I return home unscathed, which doesn't seem to happen a lot

6. Useless but incredibly interesting facts – during the Hundred Years War, whenever the French caught an English long bower, they would cut off all of their fingers, save for the middle one, thinking that there was no way they could possibly fight them. The long bowers were then let go, but they returned, ready to do battle again. So when the French army came into view, the Englishmen would all wave their mutilated, single-fingered hands at them, showing that there were still able to fight, and thus the concept of flippin' the bird was born.

It seems completely useless, I'm sure. However, what if a person takes a World Cultures exam, gets to an essay question that reads: _Describe one memorable occurrence during the Hundred Years War_, and has no idea what to put down? What will they do? They will wish they would've taken my information into consideration and will feel sorry for scoffing at my useless-fact-filled mind. If ever I have to take a test on the Hundred Years War, I'll at least know I got the essay right, even if I did bomb the rest of it.

* * *

Red lettering – print, all caps. – glared up at her in fury. An angry hand had clearly written that note. Intrigued, the principal glanced up from the slip and met the eyes of the troublemaker the pass had referred to. Troublemaker? That's what the pass had said. But looking at the slight, seventeen-year-old boy in front of her . . . Principal Victoria Freemen knew there had to be a mistake. Jeffery Sands wasn't what she would call a model student but he certainly wasn't the hooligan being described in Mr. Perry's note. He was smart – one of the top students in his class – always had his homework done, came from a good family . . . The only thing that came to mind was his lack of involvement in extracurricular activities. He wasn't part of any clubs, he didn't participated in a single sport . . . but that could hardly be considered a _problem._

Taking her warm gray eyes away from the note, she gave Sands a hard look. He was staring at her expectantly, not anxiously like most of the children she dealt with. Or bored like some of the punked-out slackers that entered her office, brandishing a cool façade that was actually a mask made to hide how nervous they were feeling. Jeffery Sands, on the other hand, did neither of these things. He merely looked at her, perhaps doing a study of his own.

Principal Freeman gazed at him intently, taking in his dark hair – it was getting a bit long – his eyes that seemed to go right through a person, the long lashed that framed them, the way he made even her stiff office chairs look comfortable, that casual air that she had never seen him without. . . He was almost to pretty to be a boy, she mused thoughtfully. She had heard that he had a little sister. Even though she had never seen her, there was no doubt in her mind that the child was as beautiful as her brother. Give the girl a few years and she would probably be even more radiant. Victoria found herself growing jealous. Her beauty was fading – it had been ever since her second child – but she wasn't unattractive. Still, she wasn't the knockout she once was.

From across her polished desk, Sands arched an eyebrow at her.

Shocked at what she had been doing – had she really been _fawning _over the boy? – Principal Freeman quickly sat back in her chair. Blinking in surprise, she pushed a lock of light brown hair out of her eyes, muttering distracted apologizes all the while.

Sands had to fight the urge to break into a grin.

_Easy boy, _he told himself. _She's married and she has a kid – do I really wanna bang a chick with all of _that _attached to her? Besides . . . Alicia's lookin' pretty hott now that she dyed her hair back. Eh . . . there's still that tall thing though . . ._

_**Yeah, but if you and Alicia hooked up, you could call her Big Red.**_

Sands rolled his eyes at the voice that spoke to him, always ready with a response to each of his unspoken thoughts.

Folding the crisp slip of white paper over and over again, Principal Freeman cleared her throat, embarrassed.

"Now, Mr. Perry says that you disrupted his lesson – _twice. _Once when you called him lazy and then a second time when you –" the principal checked the note Mr. Perry had sent with Sands, making certain she hadn't misread it " – sang a line from _The Wizard of Oz_?" She gave him a quizzical look.

Sands sighed, raising his eyes to the ceiling briefly before letting them trail back to his principal.

"Mrs. Freeman," he began with disdain, "do you really believe that? _Really_? I know I'm asking a lot when I say that, but consider my school record. Ever since first grade my report card has contained comments from teachers that read: 'Courteous,' 'polite,' 'motivated,' and 'pleasure to have in class.' I do the work, I do the tests, and my scores are always _high_. I'm sure if you'd ask my other teachers, they'd be shocked when they heard Mr. Perry's accusations."

Victoria nodded, considering this. It was exactly what she had been thinking. Jeffery Sands was a good student. Admittedly, he didn't always agree with the way the school was run – neither did she, but she wasn't the superintendent; there wasn't much she could do considering her position – and he didn't follow the crowd, but he was a good student. And the students _had _been complaining about Mr. Perry's teaching abilities for a while now . . . It was even rumored that he insulted their intelligence levels.

"Tell you what, Jeff," she said, using the name she knew he preferred, "I'm going to let this slid for today. Just see that it doesn't happen again, okay?"

Sands grinned, making sure to look relieved instead of triumphant even though he knew he would win all along.

_

* * *

I liked the idea of Sands' principal being attracted to him. Dunno why, I just did. And, come on, it's Sands __we're talking about, people! If we thought he was good looking in OUaTiM, imagine him in eleventh grade. Actually, I'm having a hard time doing that for some reason. I'm thinking that if I saw what Mr. Depp looked like when he was younger, I could probably get a better mental image. If anybody has any links that could provide this, please ship 'em my way!_ Sands **Author's Thanks and Review Responses**

**vanillafluffy: **Ah, _Harriet the Spy_ . . . good, good book. Good movie, too. I know it's what got me into writing. And combined with those certain ingredients . . . yeah, I gotta admit I think it'd make a nice concoction. Glad ya liked it!

**Dawnie-7: **There is something about clowns . . . It's like you said, they're too happy. And with that makeup, it's like they're smiles are permanent. Like they're frozen or something. (shudder) Creepy . . . And cinnamon! Yes! Think about it: The government has done all this crazy stuff already – why _not_ get a popular spice involved with their schemes?

**morph: **Oy vey, why would anybody write a play about clowns harassing kids? That's just . . . that's wrong! It's downright monstrous! :O But, yes, very ironic that you'd read this later. I'm not sure if I could fit Winnipeg in anywhere, unfortunately. Sands already mentioned family vacations, so there's really no reason to bring them up again. I will try to, though! :) And I don't mind if you told me you were watching Mexico. :) That scene played out in my mind as I read your description and it actually gave me an idea for a dream sequence in Smoke. So, really, it's a good thing you told me what you were watching. Thanks!

**ringbearers-gaurdian: **It's such a relief to hear the word 'original' used. :D That's the one I always look for for some reason, so I thank you for using it to describe this fic. And it's good to hear that I'm not the only one who acted like Sands. Well, technically I still do cuz I've still got two years left of high school to go. I've been getting worried cuz Sands is written very well apparently. Thing is, I'm describing myself! Ahh! Eh. (shrug) It could be worse, I suppose. And it's not like I can't stand Sands, either – _love _him, but then again, who doesn't ;D

**fanfiction fanatic: **lol, true. I'm actually somewhat shy but not so much that I don't enjoy praise ;)

**Lynx Ryder: **Breaking your nose is defintely painful. Belive me, I know from experience. 9.9;; And nosey neighbors – they must have no life if all they're interested in is what's going on next door. Pretty much anybody who's a busybody gets on my nerves – another reason why I don't like Cat ;D I'm not entierly sure what Sands' deal with snakes is – they're cute! – but I think there was a flashback in Home where Lyn was bitten by one. Sands was kinda freaked out by the whole experience, so that's probably what did it. And I hope a wide imagination is why I find Sands easy to write – mind, though, it still takes me days to get a scene written if he's feeling particuarly emotional in it.

**zigzag: **Nah, you've done a good job writing your Sands u.u Which reminds me that I need to review your story, if FFN isn't being difficult again, that is. -.9 May I ask, though, what was the other Sands childhood fic you found? I love 'em, so I'm dying to know :D

**DragonHunter200: **Yay! Somebody mentioned _Secret Window_! You'd think a lot of people would, but no. Anyway, what's really terrible about Mr. Perry is the fact that he's a major ripoff of my actual geometry teacher. I screw with his head a lot, though, so sitting through a boring non-lesson in geometry is almost worth it if I can tick the guy off. ;) And you're right, Sands was just being Sands again, that crazy kid. He always seemed like he'd know that he was attractive but wouldn't flaunt it like a pretty boy, but would exactly try to hide his looks either – unless he's wearing one of his bad disguises and even _then _he doesn't look bad. Which is why I think it's funny that Johnny Depp played him since he's intent on hiding his looks, God love him :) Oooh . . . I probably shouldn't mention that Clarabelle is the name of the drunken, chain-smoking, pedophine clown that showed up at my seventh birthday party, should I? (wince) Sorry for inflicting terror on your behalf – I can't help myself! It's an impulse! Oh, but I'm glad you agree with the cinnamon thing! Spread the word!

**Choco Donut: **(waves to new reviewer) Hey there! And thank you. Glad you hear you like everything. :)

o


	4. The Future

**The Autobiography of a "Troubled Soul"**

By

_S. Jeffery Sands _

Edited and Approved By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Four: **The Future-ture-ture-ture…

And now it's time to say goodbye . . . :( I said there would only be four chapters to this but I kinda hoped I'd be wrong. This story was so much fun to write! Not that Home and Smoke weren't/aren't, of course. This one was extremely easy, however. Inspiration just came to me fort it – mostly cuz I based all of the characters (even teenage-Sands) on people in my everyday life. :D; I don't even wanna _think _about what might happen if said people ever found out about this, but if they do I hope they know that I am very grateful for them and the inspiration they provide. :)

**VVV**

"I hate gym class," Sands announced before taking a long drag off his cigarette.

"I hate _co-ed_ gym class," his friend Alicia returned. "When we don't have co-ed gym, it's okay," she reasoned. "The guys are such competitive dicks. That's probably why you don't like it.."

He nodded distantly, two fine jets of smoke streaming out of his nose.

"Girls don't care if. If you make a mistake or lose the game, we laugh about it, whereas guys treat it like a life or death situation."

"Yeah," their comrade Gary snorted sarcastically. "Like they're gonna die if they lose a fucking game of dodge ball."

His friends murmured their agreement and then the group lapsed into silence once more. They had stowed away behind the bleachers for seventh period, flat out refusing to run the track with the rest of the class. Last week, after the gym teacher had refused to let Alicia sit out for running despite the asthma attack she was barely recovering from at the time, they had gotten together and collaborated. No way. No more gym class for them. Not after that.

So when the next class rolled around, they had each followed through the beginning of the period as if they weren't planning to skip out on it. They had changed into their tacky maroon and gray gym uniforms and stepped out onto the track like the rest of the kids. They had begun to run when the teacher's whistle had sounded, making sure to run with a crowd so no one noticed when they slipped away. Rounding the first corner of the track, they had branched out from the group of jocks they had been tagging along with, dashed through the open gate that ran around the track, separating the athletes from the fans who attended their sports, and disappeared behind the bleachers.

Alicia had unearthed a pack of smokes, saying that she didn't care if they set off her asthma, that if she died, she wanted to die at the hands of something she enjoyed, not running. Sands and Gary had not protested and had gratefully accepted a cig.

Now they leaned casually against the back of the bleachers, careful not to sit down so the rough shale that covered the ground beneath their feet wouldn't dig into their skin. Inhaling deeply, cigarette still pursed between her lips, Alicia began.

"So, I heard you had a go at Perry again."

The way she said it, she sounded like she was congratulating him. Sands shrugged nonchalantly.

"He deserved it. I was only doing what everyone else wanted to do."

"Uh huh," she agreed, though her tone held amused disbelief. "So did he send you to the principal's office?"

"Ah, hell, Alicia," Gary cut in, "that's probably what he was aiming for." A puff of smoke escaped his mouth as he ran a hand through his spiky, bleached, blonde hair.

_Billy Idol-esque or what? _Sands wondered silently. _Or maybe he's just a devoted fan of Miss K._

"So what'd they do to you?" Alicia wanted to know, tossing her tomato-red tresses over her shoulder and smiling at him, her blue eyes sparkling.

Again Sands shrugged.

"You know Freeman. She couldn't say no to me."

"Oh my God, did you bang her?" Alicia cried, incredulous and trying not to laugh while Gary nearly gagged on his cigarette.

"Christ, no, where'd you think that?"

"Come on, hon, I know what a horn-dog you are."

"Doesn't mean I'll bump uglies with my principal." Sands took another drag off of his cigarette but kept the smoke in his lungs as he spoke. "Anyway, I didn't even _do _anything and she didn't come on to me." He blew the smoke out through his mouth, closing his eyes as the acrid scent filled the air. "I just knew what she wanted, and she wasn't gonna get it. I've got enough shit going on without a student-teacher affaire to deal with."

"Oh, hon," Alicia sighed wistfully. "You could've benefited greatly if you'd just slept with her. You probably _would _get valedictorian next year."

"Doubt that, Alicia," Gary put in. "In case you didn't notice, this is a _Catholic _school in a town that's generally _Catholic_."

"D'you really think I'm gonna get it when I'm a 'heathen Jew?'" Sands asked her, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

Alicia dropped her eyes to the dull gray of the shale that cut into the rubber soles of her gym sneakers. Sands had a brilliant mind, yet his religion – which he didn't even believe in all that much – continued to hold him back. She knew that he didn't care whether he was named valedictorian for their class or not; it was the sheer injustice of it all that pissed him off.

Alicia sighed, gazing off into the distance, and raised her cigarette to her lips.

"You still should've nailed her," she told Sands. "It would've at least made the rest of your day."

**VVV **

**Part IV**

In the future the United States will consist of mostly Mexicans and Caucasians, much as it does now, only the population number will have increased to a whopping 770,500,00. While a woman has yet to run for office, we will have had our first African American candidate when O. J. Simpson's son decides to join the presidential race. Unfortunately, he is no match for his opponent, George Bush II. Once elected and not judged by decisions his father made in the past, President Bush will serve an interesting term doing exactly what his advisors tell him to do: go to Iraq and _find _those illusive weapons of mass destruction that both his father _knew_ were there the entire time.

The argument over religion in the classroom will have been diluted over the years. However, a rebellious, anger-driven youth will raise the battle once again, insisting that songs with phrases like "The Lord bless you and keep you" should not be allowed in school concerts and should be banned from the school entirely. This person will gain followers, atheists and agnostics alike, all disgusted young rebels, each demanding that religion be ripped from the educational system. This will not be started because the teenager was offended, however. No, the battle for religion in the classroom will have been brought up once again because the student particularly didn't care for the songs _May the Good Lord Bless and Keep You_, _You Raise Me Up_, and _Joyful, Joyful_.

Reading will be dead. By the way things are going, people will have grown so lazy that books will be gone. Practically everything will have been made into a movie in 30 years. If not that, then the books will at least been put on a CD so a person can listen to it instead of wasting energy trying to figure out big words in tiny print.

State testing will be just as alive as it was in 2004, causing intercity schools to rebuild their dilapidated buildings with cardboard and cheap, homemade plaster. Due to a low score on the math portion of the exam, yours truly will have been rejected from every college he ever applied to, even though you do not need to take a single math course if you are planning to a journalist for _National Inquire_. I will be living out of my car and taking whatever job I can find. Eventually, I will turn to the dark side and take up a position at a McDonalds. Finally, so disgusted with frying the disgusting, greasy, not-quite-food, I will throw off my apron and leave the building. Now on the run from Ronald McDonald and his band of misfit mascots, I will flee the country, winding up in the only place I know I will be accepted: France.

Yes, that's right, France. We make fun of the country in America, but after looking into its culture and government and background, I feel that I'd get along rather well in France. Americans may call the French wimps, but then again, so am I. Kids, seriously, fighting is not the answer. Guns and money are. It's just that simple.

It sounds cliché to say that after finishing school I will move to France, but in all honesty I would like to. Over there, a person can talk about art and literature – and people will actually _talk back _to you. Of course, I could do that in America, but in France there are more people who will share those interests, whereas over here I have to look far and wide for someone who's even heard of any of the books I like.

As far as my love life is concerned, I cannot see myself getting married, but who knows. Things change, people change, and by the time I hit college (assuming I'm accepted, that is), I may very well be a complete social butterfly. I highly doubt this. While I may be friendlier (yeah, right) I do not think I could ever be a total busybody. Then I'd be like my neighbors and that is just not good.

While there _is _a slim chance I'll find my 'dream girl' and a mildly strong possibility I'll live out the rest of my days in France, I will not have children. I'm not good with kids having not grown up around any that I particularly liked. I tend to take after my uncle Bernard and scare kids occasionally. I can't even picture myself having children, so what would make me think that I would actually go through with it? According to her siblings, my mother always said that she never wanted kids, yet here Lynné and I are, but I tend to keep my word whereas hers had the tendency to waver from time to time. I guess what I'm trying to say is . . . France, yes; marriage, I doubt it but you never know; kids . . . no, just . . . no.

Thinking things over, I have several careers in mind. Journalism doesn't sound like it would fit me, I'm sure, but think about how much fun it would be to make up a bunch of crap for a newspaper. That definitely has its perks. However, if journalism doesn't work out, I'm thinking of working for the government. _Not _the military, air force, army, navy, mind you. I feel disgusted just thinking about myself with a buzzcut. Ick. For me, I'm thinking of joining something that lets me travel a lot. The FBI is appealing, but they usually stay on US soil. The CIA, on the other hand, goes all over the world. Plus there's the secret information to consider. If I joined the CIA, maybe I'd finally know if they really did kill Marilyn Monroe and JFK.

I'm sure you're thinking that this sounds odd, me joining the CIA. I severely mistrust the government and create a new theory about them on a daily basis. The _last _career I should consider is one with the CIA. But remember how that saying goes: "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer." See where I'm going with this, now?

My childhood was strange, my ideas are offbeat, and when I am at school I act much older than I really am. I know that I may come off as an unsure individual, but, really, I know what I'm doing. I tend to get on track and then jump back off again. Sometimes fashion appeals to me, and sometimes it doesn't. I may like a popular TV show, but most of the time I don't. There is no 'favorite type' for me as far as music is concerned because my tastes are so varied. I could be listening to Mozart's Dies Iraeone moment and then tuning out to one of the Rolling Stone's greatest hits the next.

Unbelievably, there _are _times when I _do _like to look presentable, but, as I'm sure the reader knows, I'm not against outlandish, tacky garb. After all, I _did _dress up like a rock 'n roll legend for picture day. Call me a work in progress, if you will, because I don't know any other way to define my life. I do, however, have a secure idea of where I am headed to, although in another two weeks I could be telling a completely different story. It's quite possible I'll be telling another story just to confuse you. That's simply how I am. I learn from experience and I stick to what I've learned. We're all entitled to our own opinions, aren't we? Mine consist of a widespread variety of things and, while things can be a little rocky at times, I know I'll get my feet back on the ground and be walking my beat eventually. Sooner than most, I'm sure. They say that every person has their own path in life. There just happen to be several forks in mine.

**VVV**

Back in the deserted English room, with her eyebrows knitted in concentration, Miss Kovinski read through the last page of Jeffery Sands' autobiography. She pursed her lips as she scanned over the last few paragraphs.

'_The CIA, on the other hand, goes all over the world. Plus there's the secret information to consider. If I joined the CIA, maybe I'd finally know if they really did kill Marilyn Monroe and JFK_.'

Miss K paused, considering. The CIA wasn't responsible for the murder of either of those important figures. The only people who thought that were dangerously paranoid, loose cannons. Still . . . there _was _Marilyn Monroe's autopsy report to consider. And any information about JFK's assassination wasn't supposed to be released until one hundred years _after _his death . . .

Oh, she was being ridiculous. And stupid. After all, she was letting a paper _Shelmo _wrote get to her. Was she actually beginning to think like the boy? She could only pray that she wasn't.

'_I know that I may come off as an unsure individual, but, really, I know what I'm doing._'

Snorting so loudly it echoed throughout her empty classroom, Miss Kovinski scrutinized the paper critically. Sheldon Sands knew what he was doing? Her doubts were high. He had already been feeding her nonsense throughout the rest of his autobiography, how did she knew he wasn't lying now?

'_Call me a work in progress, if you will . . ._'

Call him out of his mind, Miss K thought as she eyed the paper skeptically.

'_I do, however, have a secure idea of where I am headed to, although in another two weeks I could be telling a completely different story. It's quite possible I'll be telling another story just to confuse you. That's simply how I am._'

Well, at least the kid got one thing right. He was being honest this time, Miss K had to give him that, but the rest of the autobiography was pure garbage. Shelmo had, after all, stated in the beginning of Chapter Two that if he couldn't think of anything, he'd just lie. His entire autobiography could be one big sham for all she knew.

Miss K snorted again, thumbing through the stack of crumpled papers distractedly. A word caught her eye and she shrugged. She didn't doubt his claims of having OCD. And he liked musicals . . . That was just creepy. And suspicious. She arched an eyebrow when she read that he liked _My Fair Lady_. She didn't know a single man who did and that made her wonder about Sheldon Sands. Then again, it could have been worse. He could have said that he liked _Cats_.

_Dog caused him to break his nose . . . Uncle telling him that Santa was evil . . . pedophile _clownsMiss K shook her head in disapproval. _Rubberneckers . . . no family values . . . frozen tear drops . . . what's this kid got against people with nice teeth?_

And this concept with the cinnamon . . . That unsettled her more than anything. Cinnamon wasn't – Miss K skimmed through Chapter Two again – 'the aphrodisiac of the complacent happy family.' And Shelmo's _sister _had thought of this? His _twelve-year-old _sister? What a liar. Cinnamon wasn't a brainwashing technique devised by the government. It was a spice people put in candles and cereals and air fresheners. This kid was crazy if he thought it ws really a government conspiracy.

Flipping to the last page, Miss Kovinski held her red grading pen between her fingers and slashed a few words in the space left underneath the last words of the autobiography. Far fetched story . . . rather cynical . . . sharp, sarcastic . . . demeaning towards his peers . . . but all in all, it had kept her entertained. And Shelmo _had _done the assignment . . . So, Miss K decided, she would give him an A for completing his work and, ah, "creativity."

Placing Sands's autobiography face-down, Miss Kovinski reached across her desk for another student's report. She stopped short, her fingers just an inch away from the paper. Beside the stack of autobiographies, resting on top of a pale blue napkin, lay a round, perfectly innocent cinnamon roll, its spiral center staring up at her like one large hypnotic eye.

Miss K stared at the pastry. She had snagged it that morning in the cafeteria before the lunch ladies had closed up shop and begun their work on lunch for the students. She had planned on eating it in class but had never gotten the chance to. Not it sat on her desk, seeping spicy fumes that should have faded hours ago.

Her beady eyes darted back to Sands's paper. For a moment she was still, caught between the outlandish report and the otherworldly cinnamon roll.

Miss K stole one last glance at the autobiography.

Then, in one swift movement, she snatched up the cinnamon roll and threw it in the trashcan.

_La Fin_

**VVV **

_Heheheh . . . Makes ya wonder, doesn't it?_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses**

**Dawnie-7: **I'm with you, I mean, I'm not big on hitting kids at all but when things get out of control sometimes that's the only way to go. I'm thinking of the little demons who live next door to me. Babysat for them once and never wanted to go back. They wouldn't stop yelling! And they had no reason to yell either! XO (shudders at the memory) Bloody brats . . . What's bad is the way their parents think they can just put them in time out. Doesn't work at all. 9.9 But I've ranted enough. At first reality TV wasn't that bad, granted I didn't watch it all that much, I wasn't completely disgusted by it. But when you get shows like the one . . . Film Fakers I think it is? I feel so bad for the people on it because they're really trying to be actors and they think its their big chance and then the shows producers come out and reveal to them that its all a sham, making them look like idiots on national television and thereby securing that they get no acting jobs in the future. And then there's American Idol. Need I say more, really? Bleached teeth freak me out! Seriously, I'll be in school and one of my teachers will flash me a smile and the next thing I know, I can't see for the next few minutes. 9.6;; I doubt that's very good for your teeth too, bleaching them. Straightening them out is all right I guess (death—to—braces) but bleaching them? No, just . . . no.

**morph: **I didn't even think to mention Latin! :O And that's true, too. We shouldn't call it a dead language when how many languages mostly consist of words that are derived from the original Latin root? Really wish they'd teach it at my school but, alas, that is not possible when most of our funding goes towards new football uniforms (every God-danged _year _-.9;;). Hope this chapter answered your question about Sands working for the government. And I'm glad I could make your day, too :D

**ringbearers-gaurdian: **lol, I'm not really worried now that everybody knows I'm not going to go out and shoot any cooks or anything. Actually, I probably should have researched some more for my other OUaTiM stories but usually I'm too lazy to do that. :D; And I've noticed that in several OUaTiM stories, including my own, Sands enjoys the company of redheads. Hmm . . . psychic waves, perhaps?

**vanillafluffy: **It's good to hear that a bit of older-Sands is showing in this story. It's what I was going for :) And I've been wanting to use the "Big Red" bit for so long . . . 9.6 It was originally suppose to go in SgiYE, but it couldn't really fit in amongst the turmoil. And once again, Sands and redheads! Strange how so any Sands fics have him involved with a redheaded woman. Eh. I'll just slink away and not question things for once :)

**fanfiction fanatic: **Thanks, and I've seen _Nightmare on Elm Street, _but thank you for recommending it. It did give me a good idea of what Johnny looked like as a teenager even though I think he was like twenty or so when he was in that.

**zigzag: **lol, I would have so loved creating a student-teacher affaire between Sands and his principal, but alas, there was only one chapter following number three, so I couldn't really get into a lot without taking away from the autobio :( And I thought you'd meant you'd only found one Sands-childhood fic before mine :D; Once again, I misinterpret things. And Sands is definitely great! I don't blame you for wanting to squeeze him :) o.o Although I don't think he'd particularly enjoy that . . .

**The Gilatas Monster: **:D I am the master of in-jokes and you know it. Come on, I couldn't very well leave that out – your poor hair! And Sands, he just . . . doesn't like tall people, I dunno why. It'd freak him out, maybe, having a girlfriend who was taller than he was. And you're right. Alicia doesn't' sound bad attached to your last name at all. u.u

Lots of love and thanks to everyone who reviewed and showed their support! Peace out, everybody! And happy Chanukah to all, and to all a good night!

_-ESY_

_o_


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